


Imagine Being Loved By Me

by MacksDramaticShenanigans



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Fantasizing, First Kiss, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 09:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacksDramaticShenanigans/pseuds/MacksDramaticShenanigans
Summary: Crowley’s eyes flutter shut and he pictures that it’s Aziraphale’s hand in his hair. Imagines that Aziraphale is there with him, touching his curls and his chest. Crowley drags his fingers through the downy hair smattering his chest, then continues down, grazing over the slightly concave curve of his stomach and past his belly button. Stopping at the elastic waistband of his boxers— designer, of course, versace, and the only clothing he still has on— fingers dipping beneath the fabric but not yet committing. Teasing.He lets out a shuddery breath, eyelids fluttering against his cheek.Crowley doesn’t give in to the aching desire to make that commitment yet. Instead he pulls his fingers from the waistband and lets his hand float back up his body to settle against his chest once more.He pinches a nipple. Rolls it between his fingers. Stutters out another hot breath. His hips twitch.Aziraphale’s name sits hot and heavy on the back of his tongue.





	Imagine Being Loved By Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiiii thereeee!
> 
> So welcome to my first good omens smutfic lol. I'm gonna be honest here, I didn't ever expect to be writing smut for this fandom. I think when I first got into the show/book and started writing I thought I'd just write a bunch of fluffy (or tbh angsty bc that genre really works for me with them?? idk why man lol) fics and that's it but. Here we are! lol. Nah for real though, I pretty much always start out this way when I'm first getting into a new fandom/pairing. It just takes me some time to warm up to the idea. And warm up I have! hahaha.
> 
> This one took me way longer than I would have liked to finish. I swear it's been sitting in my docs waiting for me to put an end to it for like a whole week because I just could not for the life of me figure out how to end it. Hopefully what I ended up with works! haha. 
> 
> The title, if you haven't already guess it, comes from [Talk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raNGeq3_DtM) by none other than Hozier, the patron singer of the good omens fandom because let's be real, literally every song and the whole religious horniness vibe he's got fits so well with go/ineffable husbands so. Hozier for the win, baby!
> 
> A big big big thank you to my wonderful team of betas, saerM and thesoulofdiscretion! Both of you had some positively excellent advice and pointers and way to fix/improve things and this fic would be nowhere if it weren't for you two!! I appreciate you both very very much and thank you for all the help! <3 
> 
> This one goes out to all you horny bastards on the GOBB server lol, y'all are wonderful and thank you for fueling this fic with that one mention of crowley + silk and all the kind words about the snippets I've shared of it while it was still in progress! <3
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys this!!

Let it be known that Crowley has expensive taste. He tends to provide himself with nothing but the best, and the best often comes with a higher price tag. From his mint condition vintage Bentley to the sleek, stylish furniture he surrounds himself with, to the very clothes on his back— or the sheets on his back, as is the case here.

They’re cool against his overheated skin. They feel nice, too, as they slip against him. Nineteen momme, the equivalent of a two hundred thread count cotton— they are a true decadence. Smooth, delicate, coolly luxurious. He made a good decision choosing silk ones: their perfect softness is exactly what he needs.

Crowley lies back against his spacious bed, in the very center of it, the fabric glistening beneath him.

His hair is much longer now; he had decided to let it grow out again. It hasn’t been this long in a while, not since Golgotha, except for a brief comeback in London, 1601. He rather missed it. The hair fans out behind him, licking across the rich black silk like a burning flame.

One of Crowley’s hands comes up to his chest, hovering above but not yet touching. His chest is bare, and as he presses his palm flat against it he can feel his human heart beat, strong and steady under the touch. He lets out a slow breath and draws his fingers feather light across the expanse of skin. Goosebumps raise in their wake and that heartbeat kicks up a notch.

Crowley sinks his free hand deep into the tresses of his hair, clutching tightly close to the roots. His nails graze his scalp and he pulls, softly, gently.

His eyes flutter shut and he pictures that it’s Aziraphale’s hand in his hair. Imagines that Aziraphale is there with him, touching his curls and his chest. Crowley drags his fingers through the downy hair smattering his chest, then continues down, grazing over the slightly concave curve of his stomach and past his belly button. Stopping at the elastic waistband of his boxers— designer, of course, versace, and the only clothing he still has on— fingers dipping beneath the fabric but not yet committing. Teasing.

He lets out a shuddery breath, eyelids fluttering against his cheek.

Crowley doesn’t give in to the aching desire to make that commitment yet. Instead he pulls his fingers from the waistband and lets his hand float back up his body to settle against his chest once more. 

He pinches a nipple. Rolls it between his fingers. Stutters out another hot breath. His hips twitch.

Aziraphale’s name sits hot and heavy on the back of his tongue.

Crowley’s fingers, the ones tangling in his hair, tighten and this time he tugs a little harder. His chin jerks up, back arching, mouth falling open in a silent cry as the sharp spikes of bliss surge through him.

Something stirs in his lower abdomen, small at first but then the feeling grows until it’s flooding through his whole body and it’s too much not to touch himself anymore. 

Crowley doesn’t waste another second. He shoves his hand, desperately, beneath the waistband of his briefs. His long fingers curl around his cock, brushing against confining, luxurious fabric, and an involuntary shiver runs down his spine. A choked-off sound pulls from the back of his throat.

He lets his fingers glide down and squeezes his forefinger and thumb around the base before closing his fist fully around the length of himself and tugging upwards again. He relishes in the sweet slide of his palm and pretends that the callousness of his hands are Aziraphale’s, rough from countless years spent wielding that flaming sword he once had.

It’s not difficult to pretend that Aziraphale is there with him, that he’s the one doing the touching, doing the hair pulling, silently urging Crowley on. This isn’t the first time he’s done this, and he’s had plenty of years to replay this very scenario in his imagination, just the way he wishes it could happen.

Crowley bites down hard on his lip and digs his heels into the mattress below him as he jerks his hand over himself. He works up to a steady rhythm, a smooth glide, reveling in the pressure of his palm, the heat curling in his belly, the thought of his angel overwhelming his mind.

He winds his fingers around a twist of hair and tugs it harder, jaw clenching at the additional ripple of pleasure that courses through him.

It had been an accident, how Crowley even discovered he liked having his hair pulled. Having it  _ touched _ was always something he enjoyed; fingers running through the tangles, dull nails scratching at his scalp, the pinched tug of hair being guided and twisted into the perfect form, the perfect style. It was one of the many reasons he liked to change his look up so much; make a visit to whomever would be so kind as to wash, to comb, to cut. To get someone’s fingers in his hair.

There had been one memorable encounter in which a woman was helping to braid his hair. Crowley had first tried braids back in Mesopotamia, just before everything went sour, when a few small children had begged and begged to let them weave his pretty hair. He’d liked the way the small braids had looked then, so when this woman offered to plait a long one down his back, Crowley was more than happy to accept. As she weaved the strands together she would periodically pull them tight to keep any loose hairs from escaping the braid. There had been one particular tug that yanked the strands  _ just so _ , and Crowley had yelped out— but it hadn’t been in pain.

Ever since, he’s tested his reactions himself, but even he knows that isn’t the same as if someone else were to do it, to get a nice tight grip on his hair and  _ pull _ . Crowley hasn’t asked anyone else to do it— hasn’t  _ wanted  _ anyone else to. Just Aziraphale.

So he relies on his imagination. If he concentrates hard enough, and he does, he can picture Aziraphale behind him, strong, capable hands buried in his hair, pulling it just so, making Crowley ache in a way that only this can. 

Crowley cants his hips up into his fist, tightening his grip. The heat in his belly coils tightly, and he can feel the telltale tingling beginning, can feel it in his toes and his fingertips and the base of his spine. He’s close. 

It won’t take much longer, Crowley knows. All he needs is a few more tugs and the thought of Aziraphale at the forefront of his mind. That’s all it’s ever taken to push him over. He’s done this a thousand times before.

Crowley’s breathing picks up. He doesn’t need the air, but he likes the way it sounds— the panting, the desperate inhale and ragged exhale in the otherwise hushed room. This, plus the rhythmic, wet sounds of skin on skin, urge him on and push him further and further.

A breathy moan spills from his mouth and his breathing hitches as his thumb catches over the head of his cock. His body is a taut line, muscles tense, trembling. A livewire simmering with pent up energy, waiting for that spark that will light him up.

There’s a creak from the door. “Crowley, are you in—  _ o-oh _ .”

Crowley’s body seizes up, but it isn’t from the orgasm he’d been on the verge of. It’s from the icy panic of being caught, which begins to freeze the red hot blood pulsing through his veins. His hand stills, but he doesn’t make to cover himself up. Perhaps if he doesn’t move, Aziraphale won’t notice.

Slowly, cautiously, he props himself up on his elbow and shifts his head to the side.

Aziraphale halts in the doorway, his face the perfect picture of scandalization. His lips are parted in a surprised ‘o’, and his eyes are wide and fixed on Crowley. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Crowley can’t miss the way his gaze flickers down the line of Crowley’s lithe body and back up— quick, fleeting, guilty. The hand clutching the doorknob tightens, his knuckles going a bit white.

A hot pulse shoots through Crowley at the look. A soft, keening noise slips past his lips that he absolutely can’t help. It’s rather filthy.

Aziraphale goes bright red. “Oh, goodness,” he mumbles, and he sounds properly flustered. “Do forgive me for just— while you— I’ll just—” He starts retreating, drawing the door shut as he backs up.

“ _ Aziraphale _ .” Crowley’s voice cracks, a fragile, delicate thing, and Aziraphale freezes.

Slowly, he pushes the door back open and awkwardly shuffles closer, decidedly pink in the cheeks. “Yes?” he asks, trying to avert his gaze from Crowley’s naked form. He stares at the floor, but even Aziraphale, great Guardian Angel of the Eastern Gate, can’t fully resist the pull of the temptation to peek.

It makes Crowley feel even hotter, his own flush burning deeply beneath his skin. His jaw clenches and his fingers twitch against himself and he has to bite back another sound that threatens to break through.

Instead, what does slip out is a raspy, “Don’t leave.” It’s firm, surprisingly so, yet that delicateness still clings.

“O-oh, but I— I thought you would’ve wanted—”

“ _ No _ ,” Crowley cuts him off, and it’s so sharp it’s almost a growl. He knows exactly how Aziraphale is going to finish that sentence, and that’s the  _ furthest _ thing from what he wants. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to leave. Not now, not ever. Not if Aziraphale doesn’t want to.

The fierceness behind it has Aziraphale’s head jerking up, wide eyes connecting with Crowley’s. “Well… what is it that you do want, then?” he asks slowly.

Crowley fights the urge to tear his eyes away. They’re too expressive, too open. They give away his feelings far too easily. Crowley is vulnerable; completely open for Aziraphale to see. Without his sunglasses, there’s no hiding the desperation reflecting in his eyes, no masking the wanton desire— the, dare he say it,  _ love _ . It leaves him feeling more exposed than his state of undress.

But Aziraphale’s stare is unwavering. It’s steady and it’s all consuming, and the longer Crowley holds it, the more he finds that he doesn’t actually  _ want _ to hide anything. He  _ wants  _ Aziraphale to see him, to see what he’s doing to him, how he makes him feel. Wants him to  _ do something about it _ . His legs fall further apart.

“I,” he starts, pausing to pull in a shaky breath. “I want— I  _ need _ you.”

A mix of emotions flicker across Aziraphale’s face, far too quickly for Crowley’s lust-addled brain to fully take in. But then he takes a step forward, and it’s easy to recognize the effect that Crowley’s words had on him. The tentativeness that had been shrouding Aziraphale at first is now gone, replaced with a newfound surety that settles naturally within him. It changes the way he holds himself, more confidently now, and steels his gaze in a way that makes something flicker to life and lick hot stripes down Crowley’s insides.

Aziraphale approaches the bed and stops just at the edge. He takes his time, letting his eyes drag fully and appreciatively over every bare inch of Crowley’s mostly exposed body.

Crowley shivers under the weight of the stare.

“I do suppose it would be rather rude of me to leave you in your time of need, then,” Aziraphale says, with as much nonchalance as Crowley has ever seen him muster— though it lands somewhere north of calm and east of smug. For all the sense of ease and self-assurance that Aziraphale is projecting, Crowley might as well have asked him to dinner for the umpteenth time instead of his bed. A wisp of a rather devilish smirk tugs at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth.

There’s a beat and then the bed suddenly dips as Aziraphale lowers himself onto it, close enough that Crowley can feel his body heat.

“So beautiful all sprawled out like this,” Aziraphale murmurs, and his finger comes to rest just beneath Crowley’s chin, drawing it towards him so he can look again.

Crowley twists in place, drawn towards that gentle touch. Aziraphale’s rapt attention and praise are painfully sweet enough to prioritize over his aching cock.

Aziraphale traces his finger across the sharp of Crowley’s jaw, then trails down the side of his neck and over the curves of his collarbone. His eyes leave Crowley’s to follow his finger and beyond, down the rest of his body. “Michaelangelo should have sculpted you,” he says.

Crowley inhales sharply at such high praise, and his dick gives a very interested twitch against his hand. He swallows down the whine that threatens to slip out and leans into Aziraphale’s touch.

“It is rather a shame you’re still all… covered up,” he adds slowly, eyes pausing over the tight fabric still covering Crowley’s groin.

Crowley lifts a hand to snap them away, but Aziraphale grabs his wrist before he can bring his fingers together. Aziraphale’s grip is tight, but loose enough that Crowley could wriggle free if he wanted. He doesn’t want.

Aziraphale tuts, chastising. “Take them off yourself,” he instructs. “No miracles.”

Crowley doesn’t have to be told twice. He scrambles upright so he can get rid of the offending article, but in his haste he nearly tangles himself up in them. Righting himself, Crowley yanks the fabric down his thighs and lifts himself to his knees so he can kick them to the floor.

Once they’re gone, Aziraphale presses himself against Crowley’s back and curls an arm around Crowley’s waist, fingers pressing into his hip bone.

Crowley’s cock hangs heavy between his legs, aching to be touched.

With his free hand, Aziraphale gathers Crowley’s hair and pushes it off of his neck, exposing the column of his throat and the sensitive skin beneath his ear. Aziraphale ducks down to kiss the juncture where jaw meets neck, then where neck meets shoulder, softly, sweetly. Crowley’s knees nearly buckle.

Aziraphale’s hand stays tangled in Crowley’s hair, just resting against the base of his skull.

“Pull,” Crowley whispers, eyes fluttering. 

“What was that?” Aziraphale asks, hot breath fanning across Crowley’s skin, raising goosebumps.

“I said you can pull it,” Crowley repeats, a little louder, a little firmer.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and he gives an experimental tug on Crowley’s hair.

It isn’t much, not really— Crowley can handle much much more than that— but it’s enough to draw a soft noise from deep within him. 

When Aziraphale does it again, this time it’s hard enough to  _ hurt _ a little bit, and Crowley lets out a hiss of pleasure.

“ _ Oh, fuck _ .”

Aziraphale’s grip loosens immediately. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, a hint of panic bleeding through.

Crowley shakes his head vigorously. “ _ No _ ,” he answers. “Good— that was really good.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again, this time sounding very pleased with himself.

His fingers tighten in Crowley’s hair again, twisting firmly into the fiery locks, and he gives it another good solid tug.

That delicious pinch flares up once more, and Crowley’s head falls back against Aziraphale’s shoulder, mouth dropping open in a silent cry. His face screws up in pleasure, and his chest rises and falls rapidly.

“You quite like that, don’t you?” Aziraphale muses. “I never would have guessed.”

“Hnngh,” is all Crowley can manage as Aziraphale does it again, pulling sharply then smoothing his palm over Crowley’s hair. A balm for the pain. It’s such an Aziraphale thing to do.

The tugs and caresses of Aziraphale’s hands in Crowley’s hair numb his mind into a pleasant, needy haze. That’s why it comes as a complete surprise when Aziraphale reaches around Crowley’s waist with one hand to grasp at his cock, and this time Crowley’s knees  _ do  _ give out. He collapses back against Aziraphale’s body, and Aziraphale disentangles his other hand from Crowley’s hair so it can curl around Crowley’s ribs and press protectively against the flat of his stomach, holding him upright.

His palm is warm, his grip firm and all encompassing. The first stroke up is slow, agonizingly slow. He’s doing it on purpose, Crowley  _ knows _ he is, just to work him up, just to make him ache for it. He ought to accuse Aziraphale of being wicked, but he can’t bring himself to, not when Aziraphale is overwhelming him with such care and grace. The touch lights up every nerve ending in Crowley’s body, leaving a white hot trail of sparks in its wake.

When Aziraphale’s hand reaches the head, he traces a finger tantalizingly around the crown of Crowley’s cock, drawing a keening whine from the back of his throat. He thumbs over the slit, pushing the pad of his finger through the mess of precome dripping in earnest. 

“Oh, my darling, how eager you are for me,” Aziraphale whispers, lips brushing against the shell of Crowley’s ear.

A shudder runs through Crowley’s frame, and his head falls back against Aziraphale’s shoulder. His back arches with the new angle, pushing his hips up into Aziraphale’s fist. Crowley’s nostrils flare as he expels a heavy breath, and he gropes blindly behind him for something to hold onto. He finds purchase in Aziraphale’s waistcoat, fingers bunching tightly into the worn fabric.

It’s a good thing he found something to ground himself, because Aziraphale suddenly decides that he’s done taking his time. He works his way up from unhurried, almost lazy strokes to a more urgent, eager glide without warning; a steady rhythm, offset by the occasional leisurely stroke to keep Crowley on his toes. And if the shuddery moans that slip from Crowley’s mouth each time it happens are anything to go off of, it’s certainly working.

He’s clutching Aziraphale for dear life, but it doesn’t make a difference; there’s little more Crowley can do other than just slump against Aziraphale’s body and take everything that his angel is offering him. He’s putty in Aziraphale’s hands— utterly boneless.

Crowley can hear Aziraphale’s breathing in his ear, can feel the sweet hotness of his breath against the sensitive skin of his neck. It urges him on, makes him feel that much better knowing that Aziraphale is just as affected by this as he is.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs into his ear. “You’re doing so well, my darling.” His head dips, nose nudging just behind Crowley’s ear before he presses a gentle kiss to Crowley’s snake tattoo. Then one to the edge of his jaw. And another to the corner of his mouth.

That has Crowley twisting in his arms, craning his neck so he can seek out Aziraphale’s lips with his own in a  _ proper _ kiss. It’s sloppy, but Aziraphale’s mouth is hot and wet and open, and Crowley revels in the feel of it against his own. His tongue feels like velvet as it brushes against Crowley’s.

It’s far from how Crowley has ever pictured their first kiss going, but he can’t be arsed to wait for the perfect moment. This is something he needs now. He’s desperate for it. 

Aziraphale twists his wrist, changing the angle of his grip, and Crowley gasps into Aziraphale’s mouth. He wrenches his lips from Aziraphale’s to gasp out from just how good it feels.

“Oh, angel—  _ Aziraphale _ !”

His mind feels frazzled from all the stimulation, his cock, his hair, his lips. It’s almost too much. But it’s too good to want any of it to stop.

This feels so much better than anything he’s ever had before. If Crowley thought he’d been enjoying himself before Aziraphale had interrupted, it’s nothing compared to how he feels now.

Aziraphale’s touch is significantly better than Crowley’s own hand. He’s rather skilled, in fact, surprisingly so, though Crowley can barely think of his own name right now, let alone consider any rather particular questions.

His whole being feels alight, like one more touch in just the right way will send him careening over the edge.

It's a miracle that he manages to gasp out a warning for Aziraphale. "Close," he pants, tucking his nose against Aziraphale's neck. "Fuck, so close."

"Good," Aziraphale soothes. "Good, my darling. You're doing so well, Crowley. Come for me, my love," he coaxes.

_ My love. Fuck _ . That punches the orgasm right out of Crowley. It takes hold of his body, blurs his vision, steals his breath, curls his toes. The fingers in Aziraphale’s waistcoat clench even tighter, and his other hand grabs desperately at nothing until finding a hold in the silken sheets beneath them. He fists those sheets as the waves of pure bliss course through every inch of him.

Aziraphale’s name sits at the tip of Crowley’s tongue this time, and he lets it spill from his lips in an unabashed cry.

His head falls back against Aziraphale’s shoulder again, and his body stays tight beneath Aziraphale’s clever fingers. Crowley can just barely make out the sweet words of encouragement Aziraphale whispers into his ear, coaxing him through it.

As the last of the aftershocks of his orgasm ebb away and Crowley comes down from it, he realizes that Aziraphale must have lowered them both to the bed at some point. Rather than being draped half across Aziraphale’s upright torso, he’s now lying back against his chest, tucked into his side, both of them horizontal.

“Oh, Crowley.  _ Look at you _ ,” Aziraphale breathes, sounding a bit dazed himself.

And Crowley’s sure he’s quite the picture. There’s a flush high in his cheeks, and he can feel the way it crawls down his neck and spreads across his chest. His body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, too, and his hair is certainly not the immaculate arrangement of curls it once was. Now it’s mussed from where hands buried themselves in it, sticking up in some places and flat in others.

He feels boneless as he lies there— completely sated, totally blissed out. His grasp on the sheets slackens, and he smooths his palm over them before blindly searching for Aziraphale’s hand. He finds it stroking the side of his hair, and he tangles his fingers with Aziraphale’s and brings their hands to rest against his stomach.

A lazy smile curves his lips, and he lets out a content sigh. Crowley tips his head back and his heart jumps in his chest when he finds a matching sun-shining smile and a twinkling pair of eyes looking fondly back.

Crowley shifts and brings his free hand up to curl around the side Aziraphale’s neck and cup the back. His thumb lightly strokes the soft skin there. “You’re actually here,” he mumbles, settling his chin atop Aziraphale’s chest.

Aziraphale gives Crowley’s hand a light squeeze and tilts his head. “Of course, my dear,” he says. “Where else would I have been?”

Crowley casts his eyes down for a brief moment, and he laughs a little. “No, it’s just… well, I’ve fantasized about this happening enough that I almost thought it was just a very realistic figment of my imagination,” he admits. The rosiness that had just barely dissipated from his cheeks rears up again.

Aziraphale presses his lips together in a sweet smile and he reaches out to caress Crowley’s cheek. “I’m real, my love,” he tells him. “I’m here.”

Crowley nuzzles into Aziraphale’s touch and lets his eyes flutter shut.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, “that was everything I thought it’d be and more.”

Crowley’s eyes fly open and his eyebrows shoot up. A warmth blossoms in the center of his chest and spreads through him. “You’ve… thought about that?”

Aziraphale nods and lets go of Crowley’s hand so he can run his fingers over the ends of Crowley’s hair. “I have,” he confirms and absentmindedly winds a strand around his finger before letting it unravel and settle back to place. “Though I can’t say I ever imagined doing  _ that _ to your hair,” he chuckles.

Crowley goes bashful. “Oh, yeah, that. I, uh, s’just something I like… that I wanted to, uh, try with you,” he stammers out.

He’s not sure why he feels so shy about it all of the sudden. But that all but dissipates when Aziraphale curls his fingers around the hair he’d been stroking and gives it a gentle, affirming tug.

“I quite enjoyed it, my dear,” Aziraphale tells him. “I like what it does to you.”

“Ngk,” Crowley replies ever so eloquently. What he can’t say in words, however, he makes up for with actions. He drops Aziraphale’s hand so he can completely twist in his arms and properly face him. Then he cups either side of Aziraphale’s face to pull him in for a languid kiss, taking his time with it.

“I like what  _ you  _ do to me,” Crowley mumbles.

He presses one more kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, long and lingering, and drapes himself against the velvet of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. The small brass buttons feel cool where they press into his bare skin, and to Crowley it feels even more lavish than the silk sheets.

Crowley may have a penchant for expensive things, but this— lying in the afterglow in Aziraphale’s arms, being able to kiss him whenever he pleases—  _ this _ is priceless. 

Out of all of Crowley’s many luxuries, Aziraphale is undoubtedly the finest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think with a kudos and a comment! 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/brooklynbabybucky) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/BrklynBabyBucky)! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Imagine Being Loved By Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20815451) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)


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